


the years between

by lunarayne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarayne/pseuds/lunarayne
Summary: What happened to Draco between the Second Wizarding War and that day on Platform 9¾ nineteen years later? (wip)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a work in progress. Very much a work in progress. Tags will be updated as they come. But I just have a lot of feelings for Draco and I look forward to this journey with him.

Draco Malfoy wanted to apologize. Wanted to open his lips and spit out the words one after the other until they tasted better on his tongue. He thought about the words “thank you.” Considered that they sounded better and seemed easier than “I’m sorry,” but neither seemed quite comfortable. He was blank, staring, thoughts merely fleeting, one after the other. He’d nearly forgotten where he was until Narcissa lay a hand on his knee and leaned in, murmuring, “Draco, darling.”

“I’m fine,” he said, though it was something of a low grumble. The easier _two words_.

Amycus was dragged out of the room. Draco’s eyes caught his. He’d have thought that Amycus would put up more of a fight than he did, but instead, the man walked in shackles, led by Ministry officials, head held high, though his pace was languid enough that it was clear he wanted every last _moment_ of freedom he could get.

Lucius was trembling. Narcissa was the picture of quiet strength. Draco looked to her; her back was straight, her gaze was forward, and her lips were pressed together in a perfect grace and sophistication. Draco realized for, perhaps, the first time that his father was nothing more than a paper man: he’d stood so proud and strong, but as soon as there was the slightest burst of wind, he crumpled underneath the pressure.

“Is it time?” His mother’s voice. Draco looked up to the Ministry official who was standing in front of the Malfoys, somber.

The official nodded. “It’s time.”

Draco saw his father grip his cane tighter. Lucius looked ghostly now. His eyes were sunken, his hair seemed thinner, and barely any time had passed at all. Draco, however, was entirely numb. He rose when his mother rose. Followed behind her, step after step. His father walked behind him for once.

_I didn’t have a choice,_ Draco thought, lips pressing together tightly to drown out the fear. _Even stupid Dumbledore knew that I didn’t have a choice._

The room seemed massive. The Wizengamot was not at all what Draco had been expecting. Potter had come here once, hadn’t he? Used magic during the summer between school years. How had he survived at such a young age? Draco couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet the gazes of those who towered above him, and he was a bloody adult now. Of course, the charges were much more serious.

There were arguments that Draco didn’t quite hear; blood was rushing through his ears, making him dizzy. Narcissa pulled his arm and he sat, realizing he’d been standing the entire time. Draco _did_ hear one of the Ministry members argue, “Wasn’t he tasked with murdering Albus Dumbledore?”

_“But I didn’t,”_ came Draco’s voice, though it was barely audible.

“Speak up, son,” Lucius urged; it was clear that Lucius believed his own fate rested in the hands of the youngest Malfoy.

Draco’s eyes lifted, first to glare at his father, next, to the countless members of the Ministry, whose faces he didn’t recognize. “I didn’t kill the old man. The Dark Lor-- _Voldemort_. He wanted me to. Tasked me with it. He would’ve killed me. My mum.” He left Lucius out, though he couldn’t be entirely certain it wasn’t on purpose. “But I couldn’t do it. That’s when Professor…” It felt wrong, somehow. Besmirching the name of the dead. “ _Someone else_ stepped in and did it instead.”

“Yes,” came a voice from above. “Professor Severus Snape, wasn’t it?”

Draco’s moment of fiery statements halted, all words dying on his tongue.

Narcissa spoke up, her voice unwavering. “Draco was just a boy. He was following in the footsteps of those above him. He’s learned. He’ll be his own man from now on.”

“Show us.” It was a different voice. Draco’s eyes scanned the faces to see if he could spot the owner. “Show us your arms. Narcissa Black Malfoy… you never took the Dark Mark.”

Narcissa lifted the sleeve of her dress to show her left arm, still pristine, untouched.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Draco wondered why they were drawing this out. They knew what lay underneath his shirt. Still, jaw set and jutting forward, he pulled up his sleeve and pushed his arm forward. The Dark Mark was little more than a scar now -- _how do you like **my** scar, Potter? _\-- settled into his skin, red around the edges, as his very own mark of shame.

“Lucius Malfoy.”

Draco’s gaze fell, following the line of his father’s movements. Lucius was slow, trembling, nothing like the man who’d once ruled the family with a fist of iron. Draco wondered why he’d _ever_ been afraid of this mewling man beside of him. Lucius’s mark was healing poorly. Perhaps he’d summoned the Dark Lord one too many times. It looked burned now. Singed. A wicked reminder of his wicked deeds.

“Punish them separately,” a voice said. “Spare the mother.”

“Punish them together,” argued another. “They’re all as guilty as the next.”

“Punish none of us!” Lucius pled, suddenly finding his voice. “My wife saved The Chosen One!”

_The Chosen One?_ Draco scoffed. Potter had been nothing other than a name to mock, and now his father wanted to align himself with the boy? Narcissa _shushed_ Draco, and his eyes and frame fell again, focusing on the floor.

“Yes,” a foreign voice said, “tell us how. How was it that you were able to lie to Voldemort himself?”

How easy it was for his name to be thrown around, now that he was dead and gone. How easy it was, once fear was excised, to pretend as though none of it had happened at all.

Narcissa was the picture of grace. She held herself high, made eye contact with someone that Draco couldn’t even see, as she answered, “Love.”

There could have been a pin that fell and landed, and everyone would have heard the echo. Even Draco looked over to his mother, her perfectly polished lips set tightly together.

The Minister of Magic leaned forward and pressed, “Love?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said. “My love for my son would have allowed me to lie to Merlin himself. And it is my love for my son that allows me to make this my plea. Spare him. Spare him, and do what you must with me and my husband. But Draco has done nothing that wasn’t forced upon him. If we must die, then set us to die. If it is Azkaban, then so be it. But spare my son. I will serve his sentence, and mine. But spare him.”

Draco felt like a child again, and he _wasn’t_ a child. He felt like he was clinging to Narcissa’s legs to escape from _another_ of his father’s tirades. He could hear his father’s breath coming sharp and fast, especially when another voice from above asked, “And what say you, Lucius Malfoy? Should we spare your son at your expense?”

Lucius said nothing. _The coward_. Draco could not help but hold back the sneer of derision from his face. For the first time in his life, he was horrified. For the first time in his life, he saw his father for the sniveling weakling he really was. All bark. No bite.

“Consider yourself extremely fortunate, Lucius,” the Minister said, after far too long of a wait. “Your wife has just saved you all. One step out of line and you’ll spend the rest of your days in an Azkaban cell.”

There were murmurings from on high, but Narcissa took the hesitation to say, “Thank you, to all of the Ministry, for your consideration. I assure you… our records will stay clean.” She rose. Draco rose with her. Lucius’s head was hung and Narcissa took his shoulder as they walked. It wasn’t until Narcissa reached the door and saw Corban Yaxley there, awaiting his fate, that her lip began to tremble. Still, she did not cry until they had returned home and she could be in private.


	2. two.

“You should be there, Draco. It’s only right.” Pansy was sprawled over Draco’s bed at Malfoy Manor. She’d been perched there for hours while he paced the room. She wanted him to kiss her, he knew it, but he hated her at the moment for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps she’d liked him so blindly that he loathed the very sight of her.

“What’s only right?” he sneered. “No one wants me to be there. _Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts?_ You must be joking.”

“Everyone’s invited.” She rolled onto her back, reaching behind to toy with his duvet.

He stopped pacing to shoot her a look. “Everyone. Even the Death Eaters? Why? So they can flog us in person?” His little secret -- the one that hadn’t been much of a secret to begin with -- had gotten out. Everyone knew. There had been no more room for speculation: Draco Lucius Malfoy had been a Death Eater. He scowled and turned, plucking up a paperweight from his dresser with the Slytherin crest embedded. What he wouldn’t give to have _curfew_ as his greatest problem again. “I’m not welcome, Pansy.” He opened the top drawer. Threw the paperweight inside. Slammed it closed as he said, “Maybe I never was.”

She sat up, pouting, pointed. “Draco, you stop that right now.”

Another scowl, this time, accented with a roll of his eyes. “Stop _what_.”

 _“That.”_ Pansy shucked off her shoes and pulled her legs underneath her so that she was on her knees, hand outstretched, beckoning Draco closer. “You’re acting like this is the end of the world. It’s just another day. You’re _better_ than all of them, Draco, who gives a damn what they think? You’re a _Malfoy_. A pureblood. You were in the presence of _Voldemort_ and lived to tell about it. You’re _marked.”_ She squeezed her fingers a bit, as though asking for his hand. “You possessed the _Elder Wand.”_

Draco took a step closer, but still hesitated in offering his hand in return. “But I didn’t know.”

Pansy was nearly in worship, her eyebrows lifting, expression pleading. Draco knew that he could have done _anything_ to her in that moment -- a bloody _Cruciatus curse_ \-- and she would have thanked him. She said, “You could be the next real leader of the wizarding world, Draco.”

It disgusted him.

He replied, “Get out of my room.”

She didn’t, but grabbed his hand anyway to pull him closer. Draco recoiled as though burned, stumbling steps back, yanking his hand free. His expression contorted to one of near pain and utter incredulity, and although Pansy began to protest, Draco spoke first. “What are you _doing?_ I said _get out!_ And don’t come back here! I’m not who you think I am, and if I _was_ , you should _obey_ me! I’m not going to be your introduction into the world of dark wizardry, Pansy, so _sod off_ and get out!”

Perhaps shocked, Pansy hesitated. Draco didn’t. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her up, other hands swiping her shoes from the ground. The shoes were tossed out of his room first, Pansy close behind, and he slammed the door as soon as she was free of it, locking it for good measure. There was a tightness in his chest. An unnatural fear. Draco could feel it swarming in the pit of his stomach, churning bile that stopped in his heart and hardened it. He gripped at his collar, clawing at his shirt as he paced, breathing labored, desperate to _destroy_ something. _Anything_. It was killing him, and Pansy’s voice was so _loud_ in his ear.

 _You could be the next real leader of the wizarding world, Draco_.

He wrenched open his dresser drawer and it flew out completely. He let it fall to the ground, Slytherin pins scattering, and he gripped the paperweight he’d unceremoniously tossed in earlier. Without thinking, he hurled it and it lurched through the window of his room, a clear hole, glass shattering, moonlight suddenly streaming into the walls. He was panting now… but at least Draco was calm.

 _They’d all like that, wouldn’t they?_ he thought. _Put me on their pedestal._ The Malfoy hubris was loud enough that he wondered if it would really be _quite so bad_. But that thought was easier to quash with the destruction he’d created, pieces of glass scattering in his room. Draco took a breath, calmed his mind. Pulled his wand from his desk and braced himself on one of the posts of his bed. _“Reparo.”_

He directed the glass with his wand and soon, it was all set to right.

* * *

Until dinner.

Dinners had been quiet. Awkward. Without any house elves, Narcissa had taken it upon herself to learn to cook. Even with her magic, which she’d tried to use sparingly so as not to attract the _slightest_ bit of attention to their family, it had been a slow start.

Lucius barely spoke anymore. When he did, it was an outburst that Draco and Narcissa had come to ignore.

Narcissa’s attempt this evening had been something of a disaster, although she still cut each bite as though she’d made a feast, her etiquette pristine. Draco swallowed it down slowly and carefully. After what Narcissa had done for him, he would never question his mother again.

Lucius, on the other hand, slammed his hand down on the table and barked, “When the _hell_ are we going to hire another house elf, Narcissa? We have the _bloody money,_ for Merlin’s sake! Just buy a _bloody house elf!”_

Narcissa had flinched at the sound, as had Draco, but both had gone back to quietly eating, and Lucius’s temper burned out as quickly as it had flared in the first place.

“Mother,” Draco started, carefully, after the echo of the outburst had died down.

“ _Hm_?”

They were speaking over Lucius entirely, as though the man did not exist. Draco found it sad, really, but mostly pathetic. “Have you heard of the… Battle of Hogwarts… _event?_ It’s absolutely ridiculous, isn’t it?” But what Draco was _truly_ asking was for approval.

“Have you been invited, then?” His mother was careful with her words. Delicate.

“I won’t allow it,” Lucius said, sullen eyes attempting to bore into Draco. Control him as he once did. “All of those _pitiful_ little mudbloods. Think they have a place in this world just because the _Dark Lord failed?_ He was weak. A half-blood himself. And we were fooled enough to follow.”

“Father… enough.” Although Draco’s words lacked any real muster, it was enough to cut his father from his diatribe, taking the wind from his sails.

“You should go,” Narcissa urged. “It would behoove us to gather some good will from the community.”

So once more, Draco thought, he was the pawn. He was the pawn, and he always would be.


	3. three.

There were far too many people and they were all looking at him. Draco walked cautiously through the hoards with his head down, eyes averted, trying to make himself look smaller, as though his stark-white hair would not immediately betray him. _Well done, Draco_. Those had been the Dark Lord’s words before he’d brought Draco into an embrace, and those that didn’t see it heard the whisperings.

No one was by his side. Draco walked alone, in the shadows of the statues that had been constructed in honor of the fallen, people parting as he passed. He swallowed the urge to run or vomit, but his lip was trembling. There wasn’t much strength left in him, but one foot pressed on in front of the other, into the Great Hall.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” A familiar voice. _Longbottom_. Draco froze in the wake of the sound, scorn settling over his features more out of habit than anything.

He turned to face the Gryffindor, pressing his shoulders back a little further. Forcing himself taller. His instinct was to take off, to find the nearest quiet corner where he could panic in peace.

“I was invited, apparently same as you, Longbottom. Seems they’ll still let the common trash in.” After it all, after all this time, Draco’s defense was still _contempt_.

“We don’t want you here.” Neville was stating Draco’s greatest fears, bringing them to life, and Draco’s gaze withered, eyes unsettled, searching the other’s jaw, neck, and shoulders, because his eyes were too damned hard to meet. Neville continued, stepping forward, voice lowering to a terrifying warning, “None of us want you here. After all you’ve done? You were on his side. You would’ve killed us all if you’d had the chance. Bet you’d still like to, wouldn’t you? Got your wand on you, Malfoy? Let’s see it.”

Draco _did_ have his wand. A new wand to him, passed down from his grandfather Abraxas, but it was the only wand that responded well enough to him. He wanted to reach for it, though it would have been little more than a threat; even as Neville reached for his own wand, Draco said, “No.”

 _“Coward.”_ Neville spit the word and it hurt worse than a stinging jinx, landing its target perfectly.

“One fight against Voldemort and you’re suddenly the bravest of us all. Is that it, Longbottom? No one cares.” Draco’s insults had gotten weaker throughout the year, but Neville’s shoulders still sank, so Draco tossed a few more barbs. “And no one in history will ever remember the name _Longbottom_. Your parents were worthless, and so are you. You wanted to be Harry Potter, but you never will be.”

 _“Mister Malfoy.”_ Draco had heard those words so frequently in his nightmares that he wondered if he wasn’t still asleep. He spun, Professor McGonagall behind him, lips pressed tightly, gaze keen down her narrow nose.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“One should hope not.” Surprisingly, the old bird took his shoulders in her hands and spoke to him fondly. “You were very brave to come here. I’d hoped you would.” He’d braced himself for her venom, but her kindness was unexpected and perhaps more unnerving.

“I wasn’t going to,” he admitted.

Neville again. “Why did you?”

Draco looked back over his shoulder to throw Neville a glare, but Neville’s retreat showed that, perhaps, the Professor had done the same. Draco’s former schoolmate turned and left, Draco in his wake. He’d drawn more of an inquisitive crowd now that McGonagall had him in her sights. _Why was she still touching him?_

“It must be so hard for you to be here, amongst those who don’t understand,” McGonagall continued, “but Albus believed in you. Therefore, I believe in you. We don’t make our own decisions as children, Mister Malfoy, and it would be incredibly daft of me to assume that you had a choice of your own. There was a reason that Severus, _rest his soul_ , protected you at the cost of his life, and… I honor that.”

At the mention of Severus’s name, Draco’s emotion caught in his throat in a ball. The guilt was all-consuming. “I didn’t want him to die,” he finally said, scarcely loud enough for the Professor to hear. She still seemed to, because she nodded, and with the affirmation, Draco continued. “I didn’t want _anyone_ to die.”

“You chose, Mister Malfoy. You chose between your family and your schoolmates. No one should have that decision, least of all a child. Many of us would have done the same.”

Finally, she dropped her hands from his frame and Draco’s shoulder’s sank with relief. “I don’t want your pity,” he said.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t pity you. Come. Sit with your classmates.”

Hogwarts had not been reopened (perhaps the pain was still too great a mere year later), but as Draco followed Minerva, nearly blind with pain, he could see the progress. He still hated being here, hated the looks he got from former classmates, from the parents of the fallen, from the surviving Order members. He kept his eyes to the ground.

Even his fellow Slytherin were reluctant to pay him much mind. Zabini was the only one who dared to scoot closer, leaning in to mutter, “Where’ve you been, Draco?”

Draco ignored him entirely and turned his attention to the front. He suddenly felt like a First Year again, small, unsure, although he’d had a much braver mask back then. Elbows on the table before him, Draco wound his arms together and pressed his temple into his wrists, blocking out the sight of many who dared to look his way. He focused, instead, on Minerva, who had stepped to the front of the room to speak.

“A year has passed,” she said, as a hush fell over the crowd, “since that terrible day.”

Harry Potter sat behind her and caught Draco’s eye. Draco immediately averted his gaze.

“Bloody ridiculous,” Draco heard Ron whisper, even from two tables over. “Bloody _Malfoy_ is here.” _Yes, Weasel. I know you hate me_.

“The time has come,” McGonagall continued, “to put aside the spoils of war. The time has come to let go of old grievances. War makes fools of us all. It is time to forgive and to move forward. The Ministry has completed their investigations and punished those deserving.”

Ron’s voice again, saying, “Bang up job, innit?”

Pansy hissing, “ _Shut up_ , Weasley.”

Draco melted, head laying against his forearms instead, hands curling around his head as though he could disappear entirely. What he wouldn’t give to be part of the wood of the table.

Though Minerva opened her lips to speak, and perhaps admonish the chattering from the crowd, she was interrupted.

“What was it all for?” The voice was a melodic timbre and Draco finally lifted his head. _Aunt Andromeda_. She swept through the hall, small child on her hip, and a hush fell, save for her shoes clicking on the marble ground. “What was it all for if we can no longer forgive one another? That was what _He_ wanted. _He_ wanted to divide us, but why should we let that happen?”

Sitting up a little taller, Draco focused on his surviving aunt; she’d been _dead_ to the family as far back as Draco could remember, but he’d somehow never been so happy to see her. Minerva stood out of the way as Andromeda took the few steps upwards. Harry rose, rushed to her aid, taking the young one from her arms. Draco heard Harry coo, bounce the child a bit, and heard the name, _“Teddy…”_

Andromeda caught Draco’s eye briefly. Her wild hair had been tamed and pinned neatly in a bun behind her head. She was the picture of elegance, just like Draco’s mother. Draco had inherited all of his traits from his father, and he’d never been quite so disappointed to be more _Malfoy_ than _Black_. Andromeda reached out her arm for him and, without thinking, he rose. He went to her. Draco glanced at Harry who seemed to ignore him entirely.

“This is my nephew,” Andromeda announced, winding an arm around Draco. His frame was sunken, his eyes boring holes into the marble. “You all know him. Perhaps you know him as well as you know The Boy Who Lived. Many of you call him a traitor. You call _everyone_ a traitor who sided with Voldemort, even before you ask them why. Draco.” She turned to him, soft, fingers pressing bits of blond from his forehead. “Why did you stand with him?”

But to confess the _why,_ he would have to damn his father. Despite it all, Draco wouldn’t. “I don’t know,” he answered, instead, voice muted.

Andromeda urged, “Were you the only Death Eater in your family?”

She was leading him to the water. He supposed he could dip his finger in. “No.”

“Were you the first?”

“No.”

“Were you given a choice?”

Draco shuddered at the word. _Choice._ He took a breath before he answered, “No.”

“Draco, did you hurt anyone?”

He didn’t answer, but shook his head.

“Enough.” Harry finally stepped forward, putting an end to the inquiry. Draco couldn’t be sure if it was a merciful gesture, or one to disparage him. “If anyone has reason to hate Draco Malfoy… it’s me.”

Out of instinct, Draco’s lip curled slightly. “The feeling is mutual, _Potter,”_ he murmured, only loud enough for those immediately around him to hear.

“But I don’t.”

Draco looked up, confused. Harry was cradling his dead cousin’s child. A cousin that had died at the hands of one of Draco’s associates. There were only six Weasley children because of those same associates, all who bore the same mark that Draco did.

“What are you doing?” Draco whispered, trying to hide his disdain. “I don’t need your help.”

“Minerva is right. It’s been too long. Look around. Look at the statues in this hall. Severus. Remus. Dumbledore. Fred. Statues of _your_ loved ones. They’ll guard us forever. It’s time to forgive, as they would want us to do.”

 _“Always have to be the center of attention, Potter.”_ The words flew from Draco’s lips on impulse and he extricated himself from the circle of forgiveness. “Stare all you want.” He stepped down until he was level with the others again. _Off of his pedestal_. “I’m leaving.”

As Draco brushed through the Great Hall, his pale face going red, he had to remind himself to walk instead of flee. His instinct was to _run,_ but he wouldn’t give them all the pleasure. As he waited for the train, he heard the clap of fireworks; he turned briefly to see them before he boarded, one firework lighting the sky for each of the lives that had been lost.


End file.
